


Hearts Attach

by Antheas_Blackberry



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn, Angst, Depression, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Sadness, They Get There In The End, Trauma, red wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 19:18:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19215841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antheas_Blackberry/pseuds/Antheas_Blackberry
Summary: It's two weeks after the Apocalypse that never happened. Crowley's back to causing mischief but Aziraphale is still a step behind.





	Hearts Attach

**Author's Note:**

> Not the piece I had intended to work on this evening nor did it even end how I began. . .

Two weeks after the Not-Apocalypse, Crowley began the day as he normally would have before. He yelled at and watered his plants, caused havoc on four of the Tube lines, and stopped all the traffic lights in Trafalgar Square at noon precisely.

After that, he consumed six shots of espresso without paying the barista and drove his Bentley at ninety miles per hour around Soho until he was bored with the banality. He was hopeful that Aziraphale might be up for a spot of lunch (or a few bottles of wine) so, he parked the Bentley outside the bookshop and let himself inside. Crowley wasn’t prepared for what he found.

Aziraphale was sitting at his desk, idly picking at what looked to be a _microwave meal_. An inexpensive bottle of red was open next to him; a glass half full of the liquid. Crowley stared in absolute shock. In fact, he took off his sunglasses, rubbed at his eyes and surveyed the scene in front of him again to make sure he hadn’t conjured the image up from the depths of hell.

He really, honestly couldn’t believe his eyes. Aziraphale _loved_ food. He loved to try new cuisines and restaurants, loved going out for lavish meals and never ever had stooped as low as a takeaway meal from Marks and Spencer. Something was clearly wrong.

Crowley stepped closer to the angel and stopped mid-step when he saw that the wineglass was resting upon a _book_. A book! This wasn’t wrong, this was catastrophic!

Crowley must have gasped or made a sound, because Aziraphale finally registered his presence. 

“Oh, Crowley! How long have you been standing there?” The angel turned quickly, nearly knocking the wineglass over. It was a minor miracle that he hadn’t, thanks to Crowley.

“Angel, what the _fuck_ is going on?” Crowley asked. He snapped his fingers, turning the cheap red wine into a vintage 1959 Rioja and poured himself a large glass, downing it in seconds. He poured a second glass and filled the angel’s, banishing the cheap wine to the ether. With a second snap, he was then seated next to the desk, with what only could be construed as worry written across his features.

“Whatever do you mean, dear boy?” Aziraphale sat up slightly straighter in his chair, fingers nervously twitching across his bow tie, which up until that moment had been rather crooked, and had what looked like a wine stain blooming across the light, tartan fabric.

Crowley blinked again in disbelief. “You’re eating a microwave meal,” he said, cringing as he spoke.

Aziraphale nodded, half-shrugging, as if it didn’t really matter. He looked terribly sad. 

Crowley took a large swig of wine to help prepare the words he now needed to speak. “Are you ok, angel?”

Aziraphale smiled in return, but it didn’t meet his eyes, and they didn’t have the same sparkle as they once had. 

“I’m tickety-boo, just as usual,” he said, patting Crowley on the shoulder as if to reassure him.

The demon rolled his eyes. “Bollocks!” He exclaimed. “You’ve got wine on that book, and I know you’d never do that unless something was seriously on your mind or something terrible had happened. Was it Gabriel, that tosser? Has he been back down here, acting like the prick that he is? I should have burned him when I had the chance!” Crowley had now worked himself into a state. No one was allowed to cause his angel any type of anguish, not ever again, not after what they had done to survive. 

Aziraphale sighed heavily and suddenly found the carpeting to be quite interesting. It took him a long moment to bring his eyes back to meet Crowley’s, which he was astonished to finally realise were free of his usual accoutrements and filled with worry. 

His own eyes filled with tears, seeing how concerned his only friend was. Not that he didn’t expect that Crowley wouldn’t worry, just that he hadn’t expected him to see it for what it was. He should have known better; sadness and heartache were surely created by his side . . . well what used to be his side. _Oh bother!_

He sniffed harshly, futilely blinking back the tears. They began to course down his face, and all Aziraphale could do was to bury his head in his hands and sob. Without hesitation (and astonishing his friend for the second time in as many minutes), Crowley put his arms around his angel and held him while he wept.

Minutes passed and finally Aziraphale was able to pull himself together and apart from the demon’s arms, grumbling about his corporeal body and the fact that he could no longer breathe through his nose. Crowley kindly snapped up a box of tissues and the angel did his best to tend to the damage.

Aziraphale looked up, his eyes reddened and gave Crowley a wry smile. “My apologies,” he began and then suddenly stopped in shock and embarrassment when he realised, he had left a soggy patch on the demon’s jacket. “Oh, I am sorry, Crowley!” He flushed a deeper crimson.

Crowley shrugged it away, literally. “The jacket’s fine, angel. But are you?” He reached out and brushed away a stray tear off Aziraphale’s cheek, letting his palm linger.

“No,” Aziraphale finally said. “It appears that I am not.” He reached up and covered his hand over Crowley’s.

Crowley decided that this conversation required a more comfortable location, and carefully led the emotionally wounded angel into the back where they could sit, talk and drink more comfortably. Once settled in the familiar location, with Crowley and another bottle of wine, Aziraphale finally felt he could unburden himself, despite not having any previous intention of sharing this with anyone, let alone the demon.

“I’ve been having nightmares,” Aziraphale finally admitted. 

“You hardly ever sleep,” Crowley countered, raising an eyebrow.

“The events two weeks ago, they took a lot out of me. It just seemed to be a delayed reaction on my part,” Aziraphale surmised. “I’ve needed to sleep, as much as it pains me to do so.”

Crowley nodded. After the Not-Apocalypse, stopping time and then body swapping, Crowley had slept for days, so hearing that Aziraphale was similarly drained wasn’t too much of a surprise. What came next however, he wasn’t as prepared for.

Aziraphale took a sip of wine and then continued, his voice nearly hoarse. “Something must have happened somehow when we swapped, because I now have a very, very vivid memory of what happened when you found the book shop on fire.

Crowley downed the remainder of his wine and poured himself another glass, refilling Aziraphale’s at the same time. He looked at a spot beyond the angel’s head, above him off into space. Crowley didn’t want to think about that night and the absolute pain and turmoil that he felt at losing his everything, his angel.

“I’m sorry you had to see that, angel.” He swallowed hard. “Losing your shop,” he continued, but was cut off. 

“No, you misunderstand. It wasn’t the shop, my dear.” Aziraphale paused and reached out for Crowley’s hand. “It was your anguish and sorrow.” 

The demon looked down at their hands but didn’t say anything. He wanted to not be having this conversation; he knew where it would end; misery.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered. “Please look at me.”

Crowley raised his head, his golden eyes shining. He steadied himself for what was to be said.

“Crowley, my dear Crowley,” Aziraphale said gently, his words as tender as the way he caressed his first editions, and Crowley’s heart nearly shattered into a million pieces.

“I am so sorry I never saw what was right there in front of me, until it was very nearly too late. Please forgive me, my dearest,” Aziraphale pleaded. 

Aziraphale then took the chance of a lifetime, which had spanned six thousand years. He leaned forward, caressed Crowley’s cheek with his free hand and kissed him for all he was worth.


End file.
